The Weasley Jumper
by KCUrquhart
Summary: Molly experiencing empty-Burrow syndrome. -My headcanon behind the tradition of the Weasley Christmas jumper - or sweater to US people. -


Molly woke up with the sun, like she did every morning. Arthur was already gone, still trying to clean up the mess Ronald had made with the car the day before. That boy was lucky Arthur had talked her down to just sending a Howler. She had wanted to drag him home by the ears. Or even better, show up at Hogwarts and scold him in person.

The stairs were a mess, piles of clothes and forgotten goods. Things the children had meant to pack and forgotten or hadn't put away before they'd left. She grabbed them as she went, sorting them by their owners. She put most of the things away, stacking them neatly on beds. Though Fred and George's things she left just inside the door. The last time she'd tried to go in without their express permission she'd nearly lost an eyebrow. Which had led to both boys nearly losing their backsides.

The work was mindless and familiar. She did it every year. Though usually it took much longer than it did today. Because usually there was still at least one child running around underfoot, making more messes for her to clean up. But today there was no one. The house seemed to echo in the silence. All of her children away at school, or at jobs, living their own lives. How many years had it been since she'd had even a second of peace? Too many. And she loved it that way.

The noise and the chaos, that was easy but this _quiet_ was too much.

She needed something to do.

She cleaned. She gardened. She listened to music. She cleaned some more. She did everything she could think of. But it didn't keep her busy enough. Because they were things she was used to. Things that felt ordinary and normal and simply reminded her that only one hand on her clock was pointing at Home. Well, there were two actually, but that just made her feel even sadder, realizing that Charlie considered his house in Romania to be his home now. Not the Burrow. Not their home. Not the home she had always thought it would be.

Then she spied her knitting basket.

Of course, she could start on the kids' jumpers. She sat down and pulled the basket towards her. The jumpers were a tradition she remembered from her childhood. Her mother had made them for each of her children. One each year at Christmas. They had to wear them all day. That was the rule. Each one she had ever received was in a neat pile in the back of her closet. She'd pull them out sometimes, when she felt like reminiscing, which was getting to be less and less. The past held too many bad memories.

The first jumper Molly had knitted had been made entirely with magic. There had been no time for knitting with a newborn to take care of. With each subsequent year, she'd had less and less time. More mouths to feed, more little minds to entertain, more bodies to dress. But she always made the jumpers. One for each of her seven children. Her mother had continued to make ones for her and Arthur up until she died, so Molly made theirs herself and liked to think her mother would be proud that Molly was continuing her tradition. Despite the fact that Molly had hated it growing up.

When the twins had finally gone to Hogwarts (and what a blessedly hazard-free year that had been), she'd finally found herself with enough time to start knitting the jumpers more by hand. She still used her magic for most of the work, but she felt a strange pride at adding the finishing touches herself. At creating something with her own two hands. It didn't matter that those ones didn't look quite as polished as their predecessors.

She set her wand aside. This year she had too much time. This year she'd make them all completely by hand. With each click of the needles she thought of the child the jumper was meant for. Of something, good or bad, that had happened in the last year. Each inch of the material becoming imbued with history. The neat, tight and precise loops of happiness when she felt her heart swell with pride that these were her children. Her babies. The little monsters she had raised and (with two exceptions) tamed. The loose, sloppy loops of anger or disappointment. When she had wished that they weren't her children any more. When she had longed for an empty house.

Piece by piece, row by row, she knitted out the last year. Fully aware that her children wouldn't understand why she insisted on still making jumpers every year. To be honest, she hadn't fully understood herself, until now. Because it was more than a tradition. It was a way to keep the family together, no matter how far apart they were.


End file.
